


i'm going to make it through this year (if it kills me)

by guineaDogs



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Horror, M/M, Survivor Guilt, Tags will be updated as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Sometimes remembering was worse than forgetting. Sometimes it left him struggling and gasping for air. Sometimes Richie was tempted to let loss consume him entirely.A collection of loosely-tied together scenes set following the defeat of Pennywise.





	i'm going to make it through this year (if it kills me)

**Author's Note:**

> when i wanted to write fic for IT years ago, i always thought the first thing i was going to do was going to be cute and fluffy. this piece definitely isn't that.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [@thaumatroping](https://thaumatroping.tumblr.com)

Eddie Kaspbrak was never delicate. He might have looked ethereal in the hazy lowlights of the twilight sky as they sat in the grassy field of the Barrens. At that moment, everything seemed tranquil. Even the Kenduskeag seemed seemed to flow at a leisurely pace, as if it were in no hurry to get to wherever it flowed. But still, Eddie Kaspbrak wasn’t delicate. It was as much of an illusion as the concept of Derry being a warm, inviting place. 

He wouldn’t hesitate to break his nose if it really came to it. Richie knew that and he loved him for it. Teasing and antagonizing was always in good fun, and the reactions were worth it. Right now, it wasn’t what he wanted. He only wanted to sit here and let everything he was feeling wash over him. 

It was the aftermath of a hurricane: so much destruction laid in their wake, but there was beauty in it. There was beauty in surviving. Pushing his glasses further up on his nose, he studied the man beside him. His clothes were filthy, the bandage on his cheek sorely needed to be changed, his brows were knit as he stared off somewhere, and all Richie could think about was how perfect this was somehow. 

It was that horrifying feeling bubbling up to the surface that he couldn’t bottle back up again to the deepest and darkest depths of his soul. If he didn’t say this now, Richie knew he might not get the chance again.

“Eds, I—” 

“Don’t call me that.” The response came immediately, cutting him off before Richie could articulate his thoughts. But the way Eddie glanced over at him with the slight twitch of his lips gave Richie the resolve he needed. 

He laughed a little, something short and humorless that helped release the awkward tension he felt. “You know, you’re special, right? Not just because like ten of you could fit in a single clown car. To me you really  _ are _ special—”

Eddie released an exasperated sigh. “Rich, if this is a ‘special ed’ joke, it got old decades ago.”

“No, dude, Eds, I mean it.” He hoped his tone conveyed that. A lifetime of deflection when it came to his genuine emotions in favor of humor meant that in this moment, when he was trying to be his most sincere, he felt awkward, felt like he was struggling to convey what he meant. “I thought I was over you, and I think a lot of that was because I didn’t remember. There was so much I didn’t remember, but then I  _ saw you _ —” 

“Richie.”

He couldn’t decipher the tone. Caught up in his own nervousness, his own anxiety undoubtedly contributed to it. His stomach lurched up into his throat. His hands weren’t visibly shaking, but he could feel it deep down in his bones. The vibrations, the crippling fear that Eddie was going to tell him he was the things he feared being for so long. 

He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve kept it to himself. It was safer to keep some things unsaid. Having a filter for this  _ one _ thing meant survival, it meant not ending up like Adrian Mellon—

Fuck.

He needed to leave. 

Just as he was about to push himself up to his feet, Eddie’s fingers slid over his. Just that, nothing more. Daring to glance over, his eyes met Eddie’s. They were soft. No malice, nor malcontent, no disgust. Instead, there was an unspoken understanding. He could have wept. 

Lacing their fingers, Richie leaned over but before his lips were anywhere near Eddie’s, there was a firm hand against his cheek, shoving him away. 

“After where we’ve been today? I’m not risking Leptospirosis because of you, asshole.”

If the waning sunlight wasn’t reason enough to head back into town, the sudden incentive for washing off the sewer grime was more than enough to get Richie to his feet and walking back to town with Eddie. Neither said much, but for once in his life Richie was comfortable with the silence. 

Eddie showered first, after lugging his toiletries bag and one of his suitcases into the room. Considering Eddie’s bathroom had been the one where Bowers stabbed his cheek, Richie couldn’t fault him on not wanting to use that shower. It wasn’t a big deal. He spent the time flipping through the collection of menus that were stuffed inside of the desk in the room. 

They were going to need food, especially since he really couldn’t remember the last time they ate. Richie was down to eat literal trash if necessary, so while he pilfered through them to pass the time, it was going to come down to whatever Eddie wound up finding that he thought he could eat. The dietary restrictions were probably horseshit, but still. 

He didn’t want Eddie to die. 

Eventually Eddie emerged from the bathroom, neat and clean. Richie was almost entirely certain that the polo he wore was the exact one he’d had when they were kids. His own style hadn’t evolved  _ that _ much either, but for some reason it bugged him anyway. Priorities, though, he actually had them. “There’s some menus on the desk. When I’m done, let’s get some grub.”

Eddie didn’t respond, but Richie didn’t think anything of it. He was far too concerned with getting cleaned up, which was more than fair. Now that he was aware of just how much grime had built up and dried on his skin and clothes, nothing sounded better or more inviting than the hot water. He felt nothing but sheer relief after he stepped into the shower, letting the steamy water wash over him. 

It was only when it started to run cold that Richie stepped out of the shower and dried off. One hand blindly patted down the counter for his glasses, and after getting dressed, the only other thing he did to make himself look presentable was comb his hair back with his fingers.

“Didja pick out a place? Bill and them are still around, we could all go together. We owe it to ourselves—dinner without our food trying to kill us or something.” Eddie was sitting on the bed, his back to Richie with his head slumped downward. He didn’t respond, and  _ that _ was when Richie started to feel concerned. It wasn’t like Eddie to ignore him like this. They’d gone through a lot, and no one had had the time to process it all yet, so maybe it was that— “Eds?”

The mattress squeaked as he sat down beside him. “Eds. Hey, c’mon,” he said, nudging his side. “Everything’s going to be alright. The world’s your oys—non-seafood, non-shellfish, non-soy playground.” Not a peep in response. He ducked his head down, crowding Eddie’s space in an effort to get Eddie to look at him.

It worked.

“Do you still want to kiss me, Richie?” Eddie’s voice sounded off. The same in a lot of ways, but his words slow, hoarse. Lifting his head, he tilted his head to look directly at Richie. It was discolored, rotting, with the flesh eaten away around his mouth, exposing discolored teeth, by the maggots that inched in and out of his flesh.

* * *

Awakened by his own screams, Richie frantically moved to sit upright in the dark room of his Los Angeles apartment. His nightshirt, drenched in sweat, clung to his chest as his heart raced. The nausea followed not long after, the bile from his stomach rising up in protest. Finding his feet, he raced across the hardwood floor of his bedroom to the master suite bathroom. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t outrun it. The wave of nausea hit him full force as he reached the bathroom doorway. The acidic, alcohol-filled liquid fell to the tile floor with a splat, and likely onto the walls and counter, but Richie couldn’t see to be able to tell. Even if he had his glasses on, or his contacts in place, the flood of tears, the full-body sobs as he dropped to his knees prevented any kind of clarity. 

His chest heaved, and as he sunk deeper onto the floor, his fist collided with the tile over and over and over until the throbbing in his hand almost felt as terribly as the aching in his chest. 

It wasn't fair. 

Richie never wanted to forget Eddie, not again, never again. 

But it hurt to remember him. 

It hurt thinking about him. It hurt dreaming about him. It hurt knowing that he was still down there, alone and in the dark. Eddie would've hated it. 

And Richie hated himself for being unable to do anything about it.


End file.
